Control
by thattangledweb
Summary: Sam and Dean are a lot a like. Dean reflects upon this through the years. John/Dean and Sam/Dean warning. WINCEST and INCEST themes. Not really explicit, but not so that you wouldn't get the point. Rated M for safety.


Sam and Dad were a lot alike

Title: Control  
Author: thattangledweb, otherwise known as ME!  
Summary: Sam and Dean are a lot a like. Dean reflects upon this through the years. John/Dean and Sam/Dean. WINCEST and INCEST themes. Not really explicit, but not so that you wouldn't get the point.  
Warning: John/Dean AND Sam/Dean. Don't like, don't ready. Please don't flame me! You have your beliefs, I've got mine.  
Rating: I would say Teen Plus, but... M to be safe.  
**A**/**N**: Okie Dokie. I wanted some John/Dean, but as Sam/Dean is my OTP, I can't really resist throwing some in here. Plus I kind of set it up from the beginning

Now! On to the fic! He he!

Sam and Dad were a lot alike. They both had one-track minds. Or rather, two track minds. Both wanted the demon dead. Both wanted to avenge their dead loves. Both liked to be in control.

Dad started it when Dean was sixteen, right after one of his first hunts. They'd just wasted some ghost that haunted this warehouse- it was killed there and wanted revenge, typical- and Dad pushed his lanky frame up against the wall, pinning him there between the dusty wall of the warehouse and the hard planes of his body. But the funny thing was, Dad didn't kiss him- not yet- he just… pinned him there, soaking in his presence, his nose pressed in the crook of Dean's neck.

Dean didn't complain. Still hopped up on adrenalin just threw his head back, smacking it against the wall and granting Dad- John- better access. He sucked in breaths haphazardly, as if his lungs were controlled by some four-year old with an irregular grip. And standing there, gasping for breath, breathing in his father's scent and _enjoying it_ was all kinds of wrong.

Then again, they did lots of stuff that was wrong, Dean's sixteen year old mind reasoned. They ran credit card scams, hustled pool and card games. What was one more infraction up against all the shit that was getting them into hell? Sam and Dad were really all he had, besides the thrill of the hunt- and that didn't even compare to this thrill-the thrill of just being near his father like this. John wasn't really the touchy feely type. It confused Dean. And even though they kept close quarters- Sam and Dean shared a room and occasionally a bed- Dad always slept alone. Dad was alone a lot; he made sure of that. He'd leave Sam and Dean alone for days at a time too, left them to fend for themselves with a little cash that would never make it until he got back. He left them alone together. They had each other in a way that Dad couldn't. Essentially, Dad gave them each other, and had no one for himself.

John was alone in his bed and alone in his heart. Dean sympathized. In so many ways, he was exactly like Dad. They were both damn good at what they did. They were both totally and completely cut off from the world that they were dead set to protect from things that it didn't even know existed. And they were both alone, except for Sam and each other.

Dean didn't mind so much. He had Dad. And Sam. And all the girls that fell at his feet because he had a smile that melted your heart, even as it charmed your socks off. Even at sixteen, he was devilishly handsome. But they didn't know him. Not like Sam and Dad did. Dean knew- _knew­_- that deep down inside, Dad and Sam were the only ones who truly understood him. They were there in his forming stages. There when he killed his first evil-son-of-a-bitch. There when he cried in his sleep for his mother.

And they might not be the best people in the world, might not be the best father, might not be the best brother, but they were his. They were what he had, _all that he had_. And, given the circumstances, he didn't want anybody else.

Dean suspected that Dad felt the same way. Sam and he, they were all that Dad had left, besides the memory of Mom. Hell, Dean only had four years of memories, and they rocked him to his core when they caught him off guard. Dean could only guess how much Dad missed Mom.

Dean didn't mind being a replacement for her. If it was one more way that Dad would acknowledge his presence- his worth- then Dean wanted it. Plus there were too many girls that didn't satisfy him- hell, none really did! - that Dean suspected something was wrong with him. Or them.

Dean didn't question it. What would be would be. Lo que sera, sera. Yes, it was his duty to change it in the lives of other people, but… they had interference to begin with. So, his interfering was just balance. And Dean was all about balance. Balance kept the world in rotation, kept guns shooting straight, kept knives and machetes straight throwing, kept ghosts and demons going to wherever they belonged. Balance kept his father pressed up against him, and vice versa.

Suddenly, nothing made sense. Nothing was stable, except his father's firm weight and the wall. It was all so confusing. Never before could a puff of breath arouse him so much. Normally, it just made it too hot to breathe. This did too, though in a different way. Where that had been sticky heat that clogged his lungs, this didn't clog his airways so much as his ability to focus on anything. He was dizzy with it, slowly going insane, and the only deterrent- and ironically the cause- was Dad.

Dean wanted to stay like this forever. He wanted for his father to make him dizzy and stabilize him forever. Or at least until Dean died, because he knew that John would outlive him. He knew he was destined to die young. His attitude dictated it. The Devil-May-Care attitude only worked until the Devil actually did care, and decided to drag you home. John had something to keep him alive. His father could protect himself, and Sam who was too young to be doing what they did. Albeit, that didn't stop him from occasionally having the brush with death.

But this, this wasn´t about Sam, it was about being what John needed- a warm body, a familiar scent, begging green eyes. John had never said it outright, but sometimes, the way he looked at Dean. It was like he was looking at Mom. He never said so, but Dean had always gotten the impression that he looked a lot like her. That they were too much alike for John to resist.

And Dean? Hell, Dean was already halfway in the door; with is burgeoning love for Sam. And his _to-a-fault _obedience to John. They controlled his life. Dictated what he did, and when. Gave him purpose. Something to live for. And this was just one more thing he could do. He could please his father this way. Maybe then, neither of them would be so lonely. They'd have each other, if nothing else.

So Dean gave in. He gave his body and soul to his father, enjoying the caresses, the breathy cries. Reveled in the sweat and the pain. Moaned at the skin to skin contact and the mere sound of his father's voice. Could his voice be any deeper? Could it melt his bones any more?

Dean could feel the rumbles of his father's moans vibrating into his back as he moved within Dean. Dizzying movements that made sparks fly in his vision. Girls didn't do this. No girl had ever come close. Dean didn't care. Dad was here now, and that was all he needed.

And he had Dad until Dad was reminded of what his goal in life really was. To kill the thing that killed mom. It didn't matter that he still had Dean. That he'd always had Dean. It was mom. And Dean couldn't lie to himself- it always was.

So he chilled for a week or three while Dad might still come back, then he'd gone to get Sam. Sam wasn't so alone anymore either. He'd had this bombshell girlfriend on whom he could depend. He didn't need Dean either. But Dean decided to be selfish, and pulled Sam away, if only for a couple of days. He´d returned Sam to Stanford hours before he needed to go to his interview. Sam had his own life, full with girlfriend, friends and school. It wasn't like he needed Dean anymore anyway. But, somehow, Dean could sense that something wasn't right when he dropped Sam off. So he decided to hang around for an hour, just to see. And sure enough, within ten minutes, the place was on fire, and Jess was dead. Suddenly Dean wasn't so disposable anymore.

But Sam was still a lot like Dad. They even had the same MO. Push him up against a wall after a hunt and kiss him to oblivion.

Dean didn't complain. In some weird way, Sam's weight and height felt like Dad all those years ago. Almost two months after that, Dad showed up again. In Chicago, fighting the Devas and Meg. And Dean was torn. Should he comfort Dad, or tend to Sam? The choice was made for him. Sam needed tending, and John couldn't stay. But it brought a whole new meaning to the phrase 'from the frying pan into the fire.' At first it'd just been incest. That he could deal with. It really wasn't like he was going to produce some freak babies or anything. They weren't upsetting the natural order of anything. If anything, they were saving children from growing up like they had- militant and obedient to a fault, but aggressive and socially inept with the truth.

Then it had gotten worse. Dean was in love. With his father. And his brother. The "die for them" type of love. The grand romantic gesture type of love. Not that dying for them was a grand romantic gesture or anything. But… He would.

Dad didn't know about Sam. Sam didn't know about Dad. So when they met up to kill the vampires… Dean was torn. He was almost glad that Sam and Dad fought about the Colt. It meant that Dad would get his own room to stew over this latest fight, and Dean could go and comfort him, seeming like the good son he was to Sam, and making Dad feel better, then cry off to Sam, because he was tired, and they both needed their rest.

Then it was hell. Because they were together again, and Dean was trying to balance the two, and he just wasn't subservient enough to please them both. He had to let one go.

He still couldn't choose.

But it didn't matter. Fate chose for him again. Or rather, Dad chose for him again. He must've found out about Dean and Sam- they weren't really that careful- because he offered his own soul, along with the Colt, to save Dean. But Dean just set his jaw and knew that John had chosen for him. Again. It may not be right, but at least it was something. And he had Sam now.

And as they burned the body of their father, Dean didn't cry. He wanted to, so badly. But he didn't want his last memory of his father- the one of him going up in flames- to be blurry with tears and snot clogged. He wanted the memory crystal clear so that if he ever needed to recall this particular story again, he'd be damn sure of how to describe it. He stood there, watching his father burn and thinking about them both- Sam and John. How much he missed them when they'd been gone and how much of Sam reminded him of Dad, and how much Dad reminded him of Sam. And yes, he concluded as he turned away. Sam and Dad were a lot alike.

And although Sam accused him of filling the hole of Dad with whoever he wanted when he'd befriended Gordon, he didn't really. It wasn't really a hole that needed to be filled anymore. It'd been filled since… well, since Stanford. With Sam. And while it wasn't ideal, Sam sometimes still blindsided him with how much he really was like the man that sired them both.

But even Sam was a little different. Sam depended on him in a way that Dad never did, loved him in a way that John never had. Dean had been a respite from the memory of Mary. But Sam needed no respite from Jess. Dean could see it in his eyes. There wasn't that same haunted look he'd seen in Dad's. Plus, why would he turn to Dean? He looked nothing like Jess. Dean thought it was because Sam, like Dad, liked to be in control.

And Dean let him have it, if only because Dean needed to acquiesce sometimes. And, as bitchy as Sam could get, he still ordered him around like it was his place to do so.

And, really it was.


End file.
